Ghosts In Their Lungs
by ninja-v
Summary: They danced in a short eternity that belonged only to them, his anger, and her laughter. FemHawke/Fenris rivalmance.


**Ghosts In Their Lungs**

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"_And I love you so much, I'm gonna let you kill me._" - Florence + The Machine, _I'm Not Calling You A Liar_

* * *

Hawke ended the thing by stomping the life out of it—wet and messy, squelches and inhumane screeches—before she herself slumped, weary. Her spine soon straightened with the realization that the battle, after all, was far from over. While Hawke and what was left of the living circle mages spent their last remaining strength to kill what was supposed to be their leader—_first _enchanter—the Templars were still outside, swords naked and determined.

And not only the Templars.

Fenris' outright refusal to fight for the mages did not come as that big of a surprise to Hawke as she would have thought. He did leave her, after all, years ago. This—when he said contemptuously "not for _you_, not for anyone"—was less of a stab to the heart than the twisting of a blade already there. Expected, but hurt nonetheless, and more. That was why she did not plea. If it had not worked the first time, why should it work now?

Bodies—the living, the dying, the dead—littered the chamber, and Hawke clenched her jaw as her gaze swept every corner and stopped at the doorway. The Templars could barge in any time, and they had to move lest they be cornered here. In hindsight, maybe it was better not to have killed Anders, or to at least wait until the battle was over so he could heal everyone first. Some of the mages were beyond the help elfroot potion could bring, and none of them knew much about healing. A healer, pulling the trigger to war—was it so wrong that Hawke put that knife in his back with more anger than she would like to admit?

"It was not him," Merrill urged gently, noticing Hawke's gaze on the dying mages, "just like how it was not the Keeper anymore." Her eyes—large and nearly feline in the dim green glow of the chamber—pleaded for some sort of affirmation from Hawke, as if she needed it herself.

"No, it wasn't him," answered Hawke simply, and Merrill's delicate lips pressed themselves into a little strained smile.

They walked—limped, for some—through the now empty hallways of the Gallows, leaving bloodied footprints on the carpets and stone floors. Bodies scattered every now and then, Templars and mages alike. There were battle yells and noise coming from somewhere distant, but in the building, it was almost as if the battle had ended. As they get closer to the yard, however, the illusion ended, replaced by a morbid excitement that came with an echo of a battle yell far too familiar to Hawke.

She ran—she could hear Aveline made a startled sound behind her, alarmed—and there he was. Drenched in moonlight and blood—his? She was not sure—Fenris was there and angry and fighting.

Hawke's breath caught, and for some reason the sound reached him even amidst his little chaos.

* * *

Fenris sensed it—heard it, something—and he looked up, a fleeting glance before finishing the blow he was dealing the abomination. His jaw tightened. He had been throwing himself into battle with less self-preservation than before, refusing to hold back, replacing his usually clean kills with reckless brutality. There were several times already that night that he nearly died—and worse, he nearly _embraced _it, would have welcomed it. All to avoid this, her, the one person he really loathed to fight.

All in vain, he thought, but the strike of Hawke's daggers did not come to him like he expected.

Hawke fell into step beside him, not facing him, and she twisted her daggers with the certainty of practiced hands, the ends sinking into the abomination's distorted flesh. She tugged, hard, and the blades were free again as the monster slumped down and fell. She turned to him and he saw the beginning of a smile, just a little before it vanished. She did not sheathe her blades—instead, she stood with her stance ready to spring at a blink's notice.

Throat parched and voice dry, he croaked, "Hawke."

* * *

Hawke nearly smiled—stupid, stupid—before she caught herself and realized that they were not really on the same side anymore. She stood alert, semi-crouched with her daggers brandished defensively—more to remind herself of the reality than to really defend herself.

Then, he called her name, and it took nearly everything she had left not to waver.

No, she could not waver, not while they were so close to the end. She schooled her face to mimic amused indifference—her default, which she donned many times already—and greeted him, calmly, "Fenris." Hawke could hear the harried footfalls of her companions, now standing at arm's length behind her, but instead of making any sign that she was aware of them, she looked at him and her gaze fell on his sword, held loosely at his side in perfect contrast to her daggers. She gestured. "Changed your mind about going against m—us?"

He gripped the pommel of his sword tighter, adjusting it so it was less careless. "I am not the one who turned against mages so suddenly, Hawke."

Hawke cocked her head. "Abominations."

"One and the same, in this case."

Hawke snorted disdainfully. "Agree to disagree."

Then without warning, they both launched themselves towards each other, blades first.

* * *

Bethany understood more than her sister thought. Other than the glaringly obvious hint of the Amell crest on the elf's hip—one had to be blind to miss that one—she also saw them, side-by-side in Lowtown and now, face-to-face in the Gallows. It hit her by then, all the pieces coming together.

She _understood_, maybe more than her sister and the elf did.

The others understood too, considering how they all simultaneously backed away from the clash in the middle of the yard.

* * *

Before, Hawke felt as if the last dregs of her energy had been drained by the monstrosity that once was Orsino. Now, adrenaline once again coursing through her, she nearly forgot that she was not unwounded. Her legs sprung with newfound power, catapulting her figure up, building momentum mere split-seconds before she would bring her knives down on him. There was a wild sort of glint in her bright eyes—carnal and inexplicably possessive—and when Fenris twisted his body clear of her trajectory, she could see that the same was reflected in his green elven ones too.

She landed with the tip of Finesse poised at his throat, and his Blade of Mercy pressed under her left breast. A standstill—for a moment, they held their breaths and their gazes, searching, searching—then a memory of them being so close not unlike now, only without the threat of steel, a long time ago, passed in her mind.

Hawke pushed herself back, bouncing a few steps before standing straight again.

Anger was what fuelled their passion. Hawke knew that—their one night together was everything but tender, triggered by his furious rant and her retaliation—except now it seemed truer than ever. They were not gentle, had never been—heat from sparks from arguments and disagreements—but never had she considered how akin to battles their interactions were. It unsettled her, how not unusual this is, how _normal_ it felt to cross blades with him.

Maybe it was because the choices they made were, essentially, normal. Coming from mage blood, Hawke would do what it took to protect her one remaining family. Fenris—branded by torture and blood magic—would do his best to prevent another Imperium from rising. The decisions they both made came naturally to them, as easy as breathing, and their clash right now was just the inevitable consequence of those. The camaraderie that they shared was nothing more but sheer possessiveness as they knew that one day they would have to face each other, and no deadly force would take that day away from them.

It could only end when they ended.

* * *

Fenris was ready. One quick thrust upward and he could imagine the flesh splitting, giving way to his sword, through Hawke's heart and towards finality as his neck would also be pierced by her steel and he would choke on the spurt of his blood, choke and gag and eventually _drown_—

—then it was gone.

The absence of her weight against him was disorienting. He looked up in confusion towards her, and she was _shivering_, only not in fear but something else entirely. He raised a questioning eyebrow and she shook her head, dismissing it—_it's nothing_.

He started towards her, his sword at the ready and this time she was less hesitant too. She dodged—easily, as she had told him many times that heavy as his swing was, speed was her plaything—and he weaved himself around and away from her needle-sharp blade. They were back-to-back for a moment, then he spun himself to his left and Hawke did the same to her left, and they were face-to-face—his heavy blade connected with her crossed light ones with a sharp metallic sound.

Hawke laughed, shaky and mirthless from behind the crossed blades. "This is like _dancing_."

The comment jarred him and he struggled to push himself back—one, two step away from the laughing rogue—as he kept his eyes on her. He remembered when she begged and begged for him to accompany her in the dreaded ball Kirkwall was throwing in her honour. He had rejected the plea, because to him it was too close to the terrible parties his old master would hold in Tevinter, where the magister would showcase his little wolf.

Hawke had pouted, the day after the ball, and said petulantly, "But we could have danced. It would have been fun."

He still never came to other balls held by the nobles for the Champion, and not once he told her why.

Now—of all the times, now—she had called out the similarity of their duel to a dance. It was absurd, and even more so when he started to consider it apt. If they danced, which they did not, this would be it. No gentle caresses or soft melodious chamber music; instead, they would have the rhythm of their blood pounding in their ears, the percussion of their footsteps as they twisted and lunged and dodged, accents of sharp metal against metal forming a crescendo.

The edge of his lips quirked upward, just a bit. "It is indeed."

* * *

Isabela thought they were going to do it forever—their quick dance seemed like a small eternity to her, and she did not mind as it was beautiful just as duels were always lovely, and more—but just as quickly it started, it finally ended.

Hawke had jumped back, and then Fenris jumped back, and now they were back together in their stalemate, blades crossed against each other's hearts. Then, they both pushed.

His sword went through Hawke's torso easily, jutting out awkwardly while her own blade sheathed itself in his body. They fell to their knees, and then to their side—it was absurd, but it nearly looked like they were holding each other in an embrace.

Bethany and Merrill both gasped and Aveline went rigid suddenly, but Isabela took several steps towards them, but then she noticed that they were murmuring, talking with their mouths slick of blood, heads held together. Isabela retreated—even she knew this was too private to intrude.

* * *

Their breaths were heavy and laboured, their mouths tasted of rust and salt, and they were smiling.

"Does it… hurt?" he asked, his hand inching towards her cheek slowly, slowly because it hurt him to move too much.

Hawke laughed—the sound was more like a choked gurgle—by way of answering before deflecting the question entirely with another one: "Three years ago… why?"

"A mistake," he breathed. He rested his palm on her cheek—the warmth had inched out her and it barely permeated the leather covering the palm of his gauntlets—smearing blood over her face. "I should have…"

"We could have run," she said, almost wistful. "Somewhere… without mages and Templars."

Fenris chuckled, and the motion shook his chest and moved the blade, and _Maker_, it had been forever since he felt so alive. "We… would still kill each other."

Hawke's chest shook raggedly in laughter, because it was true; they would still kill each other. "After a fashion," she retorted back, faintly, before pressing her bloodied mouth to his chastely. "I'm tired."

He closed her eyes and hummed in return, because he, too, was tired and cold.

It hurt less, now.

Soon, maybe it would not even hurt.

* * *

Hawke was tired, but she was still awake when Fenris closed his eyes. She could hear faintly, Bethany weeping somewhere near and Varric comforting Merrill with all he had—_oh Daisy, Daisy, Daisy_—but all she was aware of was Fenris' breathing, slower and slower. A trickle of tear escaped her eye, but she did not feel it until it rolled down the side of her nose and dripped down, cold, and she thought _this is it_.

She raised her own hand and put it on his hand, on her cheek. His metal gauntlets were sharp against the worn fabric on her palm, but it did not matter. It was hard and real and so very _Fenris_, painful and piercing and in no way soft, and she was the one who was supposed to play along until it all ended—

—until they ended.


End file.
